The French Curse of Love
by Maya-chan2007
Summary: Tired of Spain complaining about Romano, France decides to curse him! Will it work? Will someone get punched in the face? Will Prussia get a small bird named after him? Will there be Spamano? There will if France has anything to say about it! Oneshot.


Okay, so this story-oneshot thing (my first! And it's for Hetalia~!) is a present to my sis, who's been having something of a hard time lately. We came up with this idea when we were randomly talking, I mentioned some things, and she said that someone should make a oneshot idea out of this. So I did. And now she feels better~ ^_^

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or World Series. They belong to Hidekaz Himaruya-sensei.  
>Warnings: ...Maybe crack? I don't think so, though...<p>

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><p><em>Sometime around the 1600's<em>

"That's it! I've had it with him!" Spain's angry voice rang throughout the bar. The patrons, all used to this, resumed their conversations and reverie. It was happy hour, after all. Only the barkeeper, looking apprehensive and exasperated as always, and the two patrons already at the bar bothered to look up. France looked over at his long time frienemy with humor on his lips. Prussia, on the other hand, threw back his beer, laughing loudly, and demanded another. The poor, harried barkeep could do nothing but oblige.

After all, the Bad Touch had been visiting this bar for years now. And when they say years, they mean years. The original owner of the place once tried to close down; however, the three sometimes friends, sometimes mortal enemies didn't let him. Then he tried to move; however, they stopped him from doing this, too. Then he tried to die, and—well, they couldn't actually stop him from doing that, but luckily he had an heir! And so, the three nations had been visiting this particular bar every Wednesday since…well, since a long time ago. Let's just leave it at that. Whether through rain, sunshine, war, death or marriage, the three could often be found here.

While at the bar (which, for some reason, they still didn't remember the actual name of; instead, it just became The Bar. Years from now, the fourth owners of the place eventually had to change its name because now one remembered what it was called), the three would chat, catch up on world politics, or as they liked to call it, gossip, and talk about anything that was bothering them. Considering Spain's favorite topic of conversation for the last decade or so was about his cute little protectorate, it came as no surprise who Spain was complaining about now. Unless it was England. Even then, though, it was no surprise.

"What's the little brat done now?" Prussia asked, voice already slurred from his many drinks. This was back before he built up his usual tolerance to alcohol. That didn't mean he was a light weight, as he had just finished off his seventh round of beer, but still.

Spain sat down angrily next to France, hand brushing through his hair in frustration. "This morning, I woke up nice and refreshed. Romano hadn't come in and jumped on me, demanding I make him breakfast, which was a first in about a fortnight."

"I don't see what the problem here is," France said, feeling just a little tipsy. His hand already started wandering by itself, disappearing into fantastic places previously unknown to man.

"Oi, France! Watch the hands!" Prussia groused, slapping France's hands away from his shirt. "I'm not Spain, I don't play that way!"

Oops. Looks like France was just a _teensy_ bit tipsier than he thought. He shrugged. That was easily rectified; and it had been _so_ worth it, too. Turning around so that he faced Spain fully, under the pretence of giving his full, 'sympathetic' attention, he started doing what he should have done long ago—which was feeling up the adorable, oblivious nation.

Said oblivious nation continued with his tale.

"No, you don't understand. I got up, and then I went to check on Romano and there he was! Trying to get rid of his bed sheets that clearly had a pee-stain on them!"

Silence overtook the three nations and one uncomfortable human (the bartender) who really felt that he wasn't getting paid enough for this. Blank stares were directed at Spain, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat when one of France's hands happened to hit a tickle spot. Said silence was broken by Prussia laughing loudly and raucously. Even France chuckled, removing his hands so he could hide his grinning, laughing mouth behind them.

"The brat wet his bed?" Prussia choked out in between laughing and ordering another beer. "Pft, figures!"

"It's not that funny!" Spain protested. Frowning at the response he received (more laughter) he drank his entire mug in one gulp, ordering another.

"Really, then? Pray continue," France urged, stifling his giggles. Spain pouted oh so adorably and took another long gulp of his drink.

"Well for one, he wouldn't admit it! Romano kept claiming—get this—that 'a squirrel came in and peed where it pleased.' What's up with that excuse? Does he think Boss is stupid enough to believe that?"

"I see your still referring to yourself in third person as 'Boss' again," Prussia snorted into his drink. By now, he was suitably drunk and staring off into space at the pretty colors the fire in the fireplace made. "Hey, hey guys! How awesome would it be to have a bird! A cute, little bird! And it—and it could _fly_ places! Y-you know? I think I'll name it after myself. Prussbird! Or, or-! Prubird! Yeah, that has a nice ring to it…"

Ignoring their friend, France and Spain continued their conversation.

"I'm sure he wasn't questioning your intelligence," France soothed, moving his hands over Spain's cheeks and into his hair. "It's probably just an Italian thing. You remember how cute he and his brother are…"

"That's true…" Spain admitted sullenly. They both ignored Prussia, who, standing on top of his bar stool, shouting "I can fly-!" leapt off and fell face first on the ground, not moving. Nobody cared. "I just get the feeling that he doesn't respect me as a boss."

"Oh, get over yourself Spain!" France snapped suddenly, the alcohol in his system making him more snappish than usual. "Do you know what I would _do_ to have Romano be mine? I'd kidnap him from you! Oh, yes, I would!"

"That hasn't worked the past three times you've tried it, and won't ever happen."

"So? Fourth time's the charm as they say."

"I thought that was 'third'?" Prussia said from the floor. France kicked him. "Ow! So not awesome!"

"Like anything in your life actually is," France said, on a roll. Turning back to Spain, he leveled him with a harsh stare. "Okay, so you don't appreciate your henchman? Then prepare for the French Curse of Love!" he snapped, pointing dramatically at Spain.

Spain blinked slowly, looking from France to France's drink to his own drink to finally at the barkeep. "'French Curse of Love'? I'll have whatever he's having. It sounds nice…"

"Mock me all you want, Spain, but mark my words! You will fall in Love with Romano!"

Spain raised an eyebrow. "Somehow I doubt that."

"And why's that?"

"Because he's a chibi."

"Oh, it'll happen."

"Isn't that a crime or something?"

"So? It'll still happen if it's you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! And, when it does, I get to punch you in the face!"

"Well, when it doesn't, I get to punch _you_ in the face!"

"Oh, like you won't do that already."

"True. So, how long should we wait and see?"

France cocked his head to the side, trying to think through the haze of alcohol. Prussia in the background shouting "Oh, oh, curse me too, curse me to fall in love! That sounds awesome!" didn't help much. "How about three hundred years? If in three hundred years, to the day, you are in Love with Romano then I get to punch you in the face! And, if in three hundred years to the day you for some, inexplicable reason aren't in love with Romano then you can punch me in the face."

"Again."

"-Sigh-, again."

"Hah! I'll take that bet!" Spain shouted, throwing back his newly poured drink and simultaneously falling off his stool and onto the floor with Prussia.

"Hah! Take that France! Only awesome people drink on the floor!"

France rolled his eyes. Spain thought about how good it'll feel to punch France in the face in three hundred years. Prussia drifted off into sleep, dreaming of little yellow birds that would follow him around forever. And the barkeep wished that he had another job.

_Three Hundred Years Later (To The Day)_

"France?"

"Yes, Spain?"

"Best—Curse—EVER! :D"

"I know, right?"

"Romano! Come back, let me love you~!"

"Man, where was I when all of this went down?"

"On the floor after thinking you could fly."

"Oh yeah…"

-The End!


End file.
